Austin Moon Gets His Way
by PicklesandPancakes17
Summary: Ally Dawson is an author, Austin Moon owns music company and is very well known in the whole Miami area as in EVERYWHERE. What happens when Ally writes a book and Austin thinks its about him.. Both don't know each other but what happens when they meet will Austin be angry and get his way with Ally? RATED T/M characters a little OOC.


**A/N: So guys! This is my new story. And I am feeling it. You're gonna love it! So please enjoy this first chapter**

All Ally Dawson had ever wanted out of life was a place to call home. A home of her own, not a foster home like the myriad ones where she grew up. The kind of home people had in old movies, with white clapboard and black shutters and full-grown sugar maples canopying the front yard. And a picket fence. Had to a picket fence. And a broad front porch with a wicker swing where she could reread all the books she'd loved as a child – _Jane Eyre_ and Judy Blume, _Lassie Come Home _and Louisa May Alcott. Only she'd _own_ the books and not have to return them to the library every week.

Roses and lilac bushes would grow lush and fragrant around the perimeter of her house, morning glory would zigzag up the chimney and wisteria could drip from the eaves of the back porch. She would crochet wispy sweaters and bake cheerful pastries to support herself. She would live and be content with her solitary existence. And she would never, ever harm another living soul. Yup, a tranquil, unsullied life in a comfy, uncluttered cottage all to herself was the only thing Ally Dawson had ever wanted.

Which is why she wrote a memoir about being a high-priced, high-society call girl.

Not that Ally had ever actually been a call girl, high-priced, high-society, or otherwise. And not that her memoir was actually a memoir – it was a novel written to read like one, a trend she had noticed was becoming more and more popular with readers these days, herself included. Gracie Leon, her editor at Rockcastle Books, had been so swept away by the story, that when she called Ally to make an offer on the book, she had admitted that if she didn't know better, she would have thought Ally actually was a call girl, and that her _novel_ – and that was how Gracie had said it, as if she were italicizing it – was actually a _novelization – _again with the italics - of her real life experiences.

In fact, now that Ally thought about it, Gracie continued to do that - speak of the _novel_ in italics, as if she never quite been convinced that the book was complete fiction. Even now, a year after Ally had signed the contract on the completed manuscript and a few weeks after the book's debut, Gracie still ask things like, "Does the Princess Suite at the Marriot Hotel really make you feel like a princess when you're lying on the bed staring up at the castle mural on the ceiling?"

Well how would Ally know? The only reason she's even seen the Princess Suite at the Marriot was because she worked there as a housekeeper and had changed the sheets on the bed. Whenever she reminded Gracie of that, however, her editor would reply, "Oh, _riiight._ Of _cooourse. _You worked there as a _housekeeper. _Not as a . . . you know," in a way that wasn't quite as convincing as Ally would have liked.

And once, Gracie had asked if the ribs with truffle sauce at Tony Romas really could fill up a person for three days as the review of the five-star restaurant had claimed.

Well, how would Ally know? The only reason she'd even tasted the ribs with truffle sauce at Tony Romas was because she'd worked there as a hostess, and all the employees had had a bite or two of new dishes every time the menu changed. Whenever she reminded Gracie of that, however, her editor would reply, "Oh, _riiight_. Of _cooourse. _You worked there as a _hostess_. Not as a . . . you know," in a way that wasn't quite convincing as Ally would have liked.

No matter. She was certain that the reason Gracie asked such questions was simply because she got so carried away by the – quite fictional – prose. With any luck, the reading public would act similarly, and the book would soar to the top of the _New York Times_ bestseller list, something that would earn Ally enough money to buy the snug little house in Miami Beach that she'd always dreamed about.

Her initial advance for the book had actually been rather modest, but thanks to the reaction Gracie's executive editor had had to the revisions on the manuscript, they'd bumped up its intial print run, changed the title to _High Heels_ _and Champagne and Sex, Oh My! _And convinced Ally to take a pen name that sounded a lot racier than her own : Laura Marano. Although Ally had been hesitant about that last, she'd conceded, and the combination had worked brilliantly. It's first week of sale, _High Heels_ had debuted at number twenty nine on the list and gone back for a second printing. Then it jumped another four places the following week. Now it was poised to enter the top fifteen and, having gone back to print for a third time, would doubtless climb higher still in the weeks to come.

Which was how Ally- Dawson – slash – Laura – Marano came to be sitting behind a table stacked with copies of her book at a packed bookstore on Munroe Street one sunny afternoon in October. And how she came to be staring into the extraordinary pair of hazel-brown eyes she had ever seen that belonged to one of the most gorgeous men she had ever beheld. He was sitting in the back row and hadn't taken those hazel eyes off of her once since seating himself. And his scrutiny, although not exactly unwelcome since he was, in case she hadn't mentioned it, gorgeous, was beginning to make Ally feel a tad squirmy.

He was just so . . . . intense. So…overwhelming. So…gorgeous. And God, so _big_. Even though he was sitting, he was head and shoulders taller than all of the women – taller that even the handful of men - who were present, and his shoulders completely eclipsed the chair back. His hair seemed even blonder than her own, considering hers was brown with blonde highlights. And those eyes. . . a beautiful hazel-brown startling in their lightness and framed by sweeping, dark lashes. Although it was Saturday, he was dressed in a dark suit, something else that made him stand out from the otherwise laid back crowd.

Even Ally – slash – Laura wore a casual outfit, picked out by the publicist Rockcastle Books had assigned to her. Marie had advised the fashion – challenged Ally on every aspect of her authorial self. Today, she wore a pair of black skinny jeans and a three-quarter-sleeve black top with a deep V neckline, coupled with more strap-than-shoe stilletos. All were, of course, from the finest couturiers, since Ally Dawson. . . ah, she meant Laura Marano… needed to look like the wildly successful author she was suppose to be.

Of course, Ally couldn't afford the expensive labels Laura needed on the rather modest advance for her book. Fortunately, Marie had pointed to her toward a boutique off Munroe Street that specialized in the short-term rental of haute couture and expensive jewelry for Florida women who wanted to pretend they were members of the high society that was normally denied them.

For her outfit today, Ally…or, rather, Laura… had opted for clothes by Prada and shoes by Stewart Weitzman. To complement both, Marie had chosen a dazzling Ritani jewelry set – a pendant, earrings and a bracelet fashioned of exquisite diamonds and amethysts that matched the eyes that had given Ally her nickname.

For some reason, that drew her attention back to the hazel-eyed man in the back row. He was still staring at her. Intensely. Overwhelmingly. Gorgeously. He was in no way the kind of person Ally had expected would read her novel. In fact, he seemed more like the kind of person who might have shown up in the book as a character – perhaps one of her fictional heroine's many fictional clients. Each was an amalgam of men Ally had modeled after the clients and patrons of her former places of employment. Rich men. Successful men. Powerful men. Men who cared more about their images, their reputations and their status in both business and society than anything else – any_one_ else.

Somehow she managed to tug her gaze free of the man in the back row and drive it across the other people who had come to hear her speak about her book before having their copies signed. Mostly female, these were her real readers. Women who were fascinated by the idea of sex for sale and by female protagonists who were in charge of their own sexuality. Who used their sexuality, the most powerful weapon they possessed, to get whatever they wanted. Who enjoyed no-strings-attached encounters with powerful men who paid exorbitant amounts of money to have women do things to them - and to do things to the women in return - that many would never even consider doing or having done to them during regular lovemaking with their usual partners.

Frankly, Ally wasn't sure she got that. Not that she was so worldly in her own encounters. Certainly she'd had boyfriends from the time she was old enough to want one, and she'd lost her virginity when she was a teenager. But she never quite understood the fascination with sex that most people had. The men with whom she'd been involved hadn't been all that special – or made her feel all that special. Which, she supposed, was why there hadn't been all that many. The way she saw it, sex was a normal physical need, like eating or sleeping or bathing. Except needed a lot less often.

A college-aged women who worked for the bookstore announced it was time to begin, bringing Ally's attention back to the matter at hand. Namely, the gorgeous, overwhelming man in the back row.

_No!_ she immediately corrected herself. To the talk she was supposed to give to the gorgeous, overwhelming man in the back row.

_No!_ she corrected herself again. To everyone who had come to buy her book today – she did a quick count, multiplying the number of seats across by the number of rows deep, adding another fifteen for the people standing and figured the total to be. . carry the six, add the eight. . . around fifty-two – people who had come to buy her book today. Wow.

_Ka-ching._ She could smell the wisteria already.

She spoke for twenty minutes, having chosen as her topic the aforementioned philosophy of women in charge of their own sexuality and the appeal of having sex without the hindrance of emotion to muck things up. She followed up with the conundrum of how something so physical could even be tied to something so emotional – like love, of all things – in the first place.

She avoided talking about her own life experiences since, one, she was something of a private person in that regard and, two, she really didn't think anyone would be interested in her poor-poor-pitiful-me background. Instead, she focused on the motivation, goals and journey of Alexandra, her book's protagonist. She talked about how each of the men who became Alexandra's clients symbolized some aspect of the human condition, and how her heroine's submission to each represented another milestone in her personal growth.

Oh, God, she was good.

In fact, Ally. . . she meant Laura. . . had organized the book so that each chapter after the first – in which Alexandra was hired by a Floridian madam named Isabella, who herself personified society's obsession with using sex to promote consumerism – was subtitled by the name of one of the character's many clients. There was introverted Michael, who represented Alexandra's needs to let go of her inhibitions. And uncompromising William who showed her how following the rules wasn't always a bad thing. Studious Nathan kindled her quest for knowledge, while carefree Jack helped her recognize her capacity to feel joy. And all of them - it went without saying – were lovers of Olympian caliber who gave Alexandra mind-blowing orgasms along the way.

The book culminated the final chapter, Ethan. Ethan was the idealized notion of the perfect man, the one who fulfilled Alexandra in ways none of the others had managed alone, and who carried her to both sexual and emotional heights that. . . Well, that didn't exist, quite frankly. Talk about a work of fiction. Ethan was masculine in every way, but could still respect a woman for all her strengths, desires and independence.

Yeah, like that was ever going to happen in real life.

After finishing with her talk, Ally-Laura opened the floor to questions, and a dozen hands shot up. Not from the man in the back, though, she noted, in spite of the fact that he continued to study her with even more intensity than before. In fact, his intensity seemed to have turned into something akin to anger, because those amazing hazel eyes narrowed now when he looked at her, and that full, luscious mouth turned down at the corners. She had no idea why he would react in such a way to a talk she'd thought was pretty danged insightful , so she turned her attention to woman sitting next to him, an owner of one of the hands in the air.

"You there," she said with a smile as she pointed to the white-haired, apple-cheeked woman in her seventies or eighties.

The woman smiled as she stood, the sort of smile that made Ally feel warm and wistful inside, because she looked like the grandmother Ally had always fantasized about having when she was a child. Someone who would bake cookies and darn socks and say, "Oh, my stars," and wear sweaters with those horse appliques.

"Is it true," the woman said in a sweet, gentle voice, "that you're the one who invented the sexual position called the 'centerfold spread'?"

_Oh, my stars_, Ally thought, struggling to keep a straight face. Clearly the woman's years were so advanced that she's confused Ally-Laura as the heroine of the book, not its author.

"Um, no," she said. "That wasn't me. It was my book's protagonist, Alexandra."

Nana's eyebrows knit in a sign of clear confusion. "But I thought you were Alexandra."

"No, ma'am," Ally told her. "I'm, uh, Laura."

"But didn't you write the book?"

"Yes, but – "

"And the book is a memoir about a call girl,"

"Yes, but – "

"Then you're the one who invented the position."

"No, I – "

"What I'd like to know," a woman with dark hair who was hipping a baby interrupted, "is exactly how the crème de menthe thing works. Now, did you drink that before performing oral sex on your customers, or was it meant for external use only?"

Ally was vaguely horrified by the personal pronoun used in the question. She's read about the crème de menthe thing in a magazine. She's never actually tried it. Why did the young woman assume otherwise?

"Actually, I never – "

But before she can even complete her reply, another woman, this one a college aged blond with little black glasses, stood and said, "My boyfriend and I are going to be spending the summer in Italy. Could you talk more about that sex club Francesco took you to in Milan?"

Ally opened her mouth to reply to that, but not a single word emerged. She was beginning to sense a pattern here. Everyone who had asked a question thought _she_ was her fictional character Alexandra. They didn't seem to realize the book was fiction. Even though the story read like a memoir, the blurb on the cover flap made clear the work was a _novel_. The reviews had all been in the fiction section of whatever periodical was doing the reviewing. Not to mention the fact that Alexandra's adventures were so over-the-top, no one could possibly believe they had actually happened to anyone.

Could they?

**Hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter! **** Review and let me know what you think! ;)**


End file.
